


Give to You My Penance

by monicawoe



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Poetry, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:00:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29086512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monicawoe/pseuds/monicawoe
Summary: After the adventure with Borch, Téa and Véa, and Geralt's horrid dismissal, Jaskier is on his own—brooding and writing his new song. But it seems the witcher isn't quite done with him yet after all. Jaskier has longed to share Geralt’s saddle for so long, but won't—not until Geralt makes an apology. One grand enough to put all other apologies ever made in the history of man and witcher-kind to shame.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 7
Kudos: 37
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	Give to You My Penance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zilentdreamer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zilentdreamer/gifts).



> Big thanks to my beta astolat

Jaskier sat staring woefully into his empty mug.

He was brooding. He was actually brooding. The realization made him even more glum. He set his mug down hard, and imagined it striking the wood with more of an angry thump than the timid clink it actually made.

And worse, the brooding wasn’t even improving his latest piece, which felt like insult added to injury. Or perhaps injury added to insult, under the circumstances. Ugh. He glared down at the parchment.

_Loneliness...a festering boil, it makes the gut roil_

_Those who say they’d rather be_

_Alone to find their way_

_Who choose to face the sun and moon alone_

_Who always leave and never stay_

_Those like me who’d rather be together_

_Are left alone forever_

“Leading with _who_ twice in a row. Have I become an owl? Awful, just awful,” he muttered, tempted to scrape the whole sheet clean and start anew.

As if things weren’t bad enough, just then one of the patrons called out, “Toss a coin to your Witcher!” and in moments, barmaids and drunkards alike joined in, all of them singing. Off the meter, at that.

Seething, Jaskier ground his teeth until he couldn’t take it anymore, and leapt to his feet, shouting: “Stop. Stop it!” The voices, shockingly, did die down somewhat, as he added forcefully: “Stop singing that dreadful song!”

“It’s a good song,” the man closest to him said earnestly. “Got stuck in my bloody brain for days. And there’s a witcher right over there, so—“

Jaskier looked where the man was pointing and repeated. “A witcher?” The shoulders and back were all wrong though, this was someone he’d never met before. His legs twitched, ready to leap up, introduce himself and charm this witcher into telling him every adventure he’d lived. But he stopped himself, dropping his hand down on his thigh. Witchers were as heartless and cruel as the stories said, more so even. He’d learned that firsthand and wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. “I’ve had enough of witchers,” he muttered.

The witcher heard them, of course he did, and turned to look at Jaskier, eyes tracking down then up, considering. He crossed the few steps to his table, ale mug dangling from his thumb and forefinger, and asked, “You’re a bard?”

“What gave it away?” Jaskier said sarcastically, gesturing simultaneously at his lute and his clothing.

“You’re him, aren’t you? You’re Jaskier?”

Jaskier’s frown turned to a tentative smile. He’d never seen this witcher before, he was sure of it. He’d remember that heavily scarred face. “You know my songs?”

“No. But Geralt talks about you all the time.”

“He does?”

“I knew it.” The witcher’s smirk widened. “You’re his bard!”

“I’m not _his_ ,” Jaskier said, temper flaring again bitterly. “I’m not anybody’s.”

“You know he’s been looking all over for you.”

“Oh has he now? That’s rich.” Jaskier snapped. “Why?” He added angrily, “Does he need me to write another ballad for him to drum up funding?”

The witcher snorted. “Hardly. He seems to think he wronged you and that he owes you an apology.”

Jaskier’s heart lurched and his toes went all tingly. “Does he now?”

“Can’t imagine why. He’s not the type to feel remorse.” The witcher frowned and took a drink, tilting his head back until he’d drained his mug.

Thoughts askew, Jaskier watched him, watched the mug crash back down and slam against the table. “You know him well, do you?”

“Geralt? Aye, he’s as close to a brother as I have. We’re from the same school. We spent more time together as whelps than in recent years, but we cross paths often enough.”

“Well—sorry, didn’t catch your name—“

“Eskel.”

“Well, Eskel, should you cross paths again, you can tell Geralt he’s not forgiven. He’ll have to apologize in person if he wants—if he wants me to consider that.”

Eskel rolled his eyes. “And where, do tell, should he expect to find you?”

Jaskier fought the urge to say _wherever he wants to, tell me where to go and I’ll be there_ because he wouldn’t—he couldn’t make that mistake again—his heart couldn’t handle it. He thought instead of his plan: to be more than a wanderer, to be renowned and respected for his art, to extend his reach onto the stage and into the hearts of thousands. “Novigrad,” Jaskier said. “Tell him he can find me in Novigrad.”

“When next I see him, I’ll pass that on.” Eskel inclined his head and turned on his heel, headed for the door.

“Thank you,” Jaskier said to the departing witcher. He picked up his quill, dipped it in fresh ink and began to write the next verse of his song.

_In the city of thousands he’ll find me…._

*

Jaskier had gone to sleep far too late and had far too much to drink to wake up with the dawn as he’d planned. He’d slept well past sunrise, far into mid morning and woke desperate to piss and miserably hungry. He relieved himself and headed back to his room at the inn, still groggy with sleep, trying to decide where best to look for food. He headed to his bed, grabbing his doublet and pants on the way and froze. There, on top of his blanket was a bundle. He scanned the room, looking for who had left it, but saw no one.

He sat down next to the cloth package and picked it up carefully. He’d had too many unpleasant experiences with this sort of thing in the past what with all the hearts he’d wooed and broken he’d incurred the wrath of many a spurned lover or their significant other in the past. But then, he hadn’t done any of that recently, too busy pining over Geralt, fool that he was.

With a slow exhale of breath, Jaskier opened the twine bound around the package and peeled apart the linen cloth. Inside was a small loaf of bread, a good sized hunk of cheese, a small jar of honey and a note: _For your journey._

“Huh,” Jaskier said, thoroughly confused. He hadn’t a clue who had left the bundle for him, but clearly, some unknown admirer had snuck into his room to leave him delicious treats. He didn’t mind it at all, per se, had a few ideas of just who it might be: the barmaid perhaps, or the other barmaid, or that adorable farmer lad who’d stammered and blushed when he’d requested a song. He’d welcome any of them openly, truth be told. Especially the bendy acrobat who’d surely be even bendier without clothing. But...his heart was still raw from Geralt’s dismissal—though it had been nearly a week. He hadn’t healed yet, nor would he for some time. Which wasn’t like him at all. Shockingly, he didn’t want somebody else to distract him, he needed more time to be alone. And brood. And finish his song.

His stomach rumbled, pulling him out of his confused revelry long enough to remind him he was hungry. He tore off a hunk of the bread, added some of the honey and maybe moaned just a little at the taste. But eager to get going, he wrapped the rest of the food back up to save for later. _“In the city of thousands he’ll find me. I'd rather be alone to find my way...”_ he sang to himself softly, as he packed his things.

*

By mid-afternoon, Jaskier had made good progress, and settled in for a much needed break just past Carsten, by the water. He found a nice shady spot beneath a tree, set his lute down carefully and pulled out the bundle of bread and cheese. It made for a decent enough lunch, and after taking a long pull from his water pouch, he felt sufficiently sated.

He could make it to the gates of Novigrad before nightfall, there was plenty of time left thanks to the long daylight hours of the summer. Therefore, he told himself as he leaned back against the grass, he could afford to lay down for a few minutes, enjoying the soft breeze and the lulling sound of the water. Maybe he’d finally be inspired enough to finish his new song. He pulled his lute onto his lap, closed his eyes and strummed absently, letting his fingers find their way. Music found its truest form when he let his mind wander, when he didn’t overthink and try to force its shape. He let the music lead him, let his heart out through those small movements, plucking strings tenderly as he thought of that last painful afternoon with Geralt.

_“Hearts fear being broken, is love really worth the pain…”_

“Did you like the bread?”

Jaskier startled, eyes flying open and found Geralt staring down at him. His throat went dry. He almost answered on reflex, so delighted to see Geralt standing there, but then the hurt came back. The humiliation and bitter anger he’d been wearing like a leaden cloak after that day on the mountain, when Geralt had summarily rejected him. Jaskier averted his gaze, set down his lute and grabbed the folded empty cloth that had held the bread, honey and cheese. He threw the cloth angrily at Geralt’s feet. But rather than convey his rage, the cloth fluttered pathetically and landed far short of where he’d aimed.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

 _Take it however you want, you lout_ , Jaskier thought, keeping his eyes on the ground.

“Going to catch us some fish,” Geralt said.

Jaskier scoffed. He didn’t want fish, he didn’t want anything from Geralt other than an apology. And maybe some pleading for forgiveness. Groveling. But not fish. He looked over at Geralt defiantly to tell him as much and found the witcher standing by the river’s edge, stripping out of his shirt, his scarred, heavily muscled back gleaming in the sunlight. Jaskier forgot what he was going to say, transfixed as Geralt dropped down into the river, disappeared into the water and came up again a few seconds later dripping wet and— _Oh_ _hell_. Like it wasn’t bad enough Geralt had stomped all over his heart without knowing how intensely and how long Jaskier had been harboring lust and longing for him, now he was putting on a show too, of everything he couldn’t have. Bastard.

Somehow, Geralt managed to catch four fish in the next few minutes, tossing them one by one, near Jaskier’s feet. He watched the flopping back and forth, futilely gasping for air, and felt a kinship with them as Geralt came back out of the river, using his tree trunk thick arms to heft himself back onto land, water dripping down his chest and over the hard planes of his stomach. It wasn’t fair. Jaskier was angry with him damn it, but his groin clearly wasn’t, and he shifted uncomfortably, trying to hide his increasingly obvious interest.

“I’ll start a fire,” Geralt said.

It occurred to Jaskier, that—likely because of his own silence—this was possibly the most he’d ever heard Geralt speak in one go. Except for that last horrible day they’d seen each other, of course. The hurt came back anew, it was a scar that kept reopening and he almost broke his silence to ask Geralt again just what he thought he was doing. But Geralt’s back was still turned to him, muscles flexing just so as he put together wood for a fire and started it with a gentle flick of his fingers. He speared the fish and propped them over the fire until the smell made Jaskier’s mouth water. More than it already had been.

After the fish had cooked, Geralt grabbed one and bit into it hungrily. He’d been merciful enough to put his shirt back on at least, but hadn’t bothered buttoning it. In desperate need of something to distract him, Jaskier grabbed one of the fish and took a nibble. It was obnoxiously delicious, so he ate it, eyes darting over to Geralt only when he couldn’t help himself. Geralt offered him a second, holding the stick out at him but Jaskier shook his head. He’d had the bread after all, and Geralt was clearly still hungry. Without anything else to do and the sun starting to dip in the sky, Jaskier started to pack his things. Words were circling in his head, and he watched them flit about like butterflies trying to find the right sequence. _Those who said they'd rather be alone..._

Geralt began packing up too, without asking or commenting. He’d accepted Jaskier’s silence, maybe even preferred it, knowing him. Jaskier knew he talked a lot, it wasn’t that he loved the sound of his own voice—well he did, he was a bard after all—but it was more that silence, normally, bothered him. Life was about sharing, about knowing others, knowing their lives and sharing your own, and the best way Jaskier knew how to do that was through words and song.

As easily as he’d set it, Geralt quenched the fire, put his armor back on and climbed back up in Roach’s saddle, then cleared his throat, and reached down towards Jaskier, holding his hand out, clearly offering him a spot on the horse.

Jaskier was taken aback. He’d longed to share Geralt’s saddle for so long, but no. He still hadn’t gotten an apology, and he had no intention of accepting any of Geralt’s offers until he’d made one. A good one. One grand enough that it would put all other apologies ever made in the history of man and witcher-kind to shame.

So instead of taking Geralt’s hand, Jaskier set out on foot, and Geralt, to his credit, kept Roach at a slow walk behind him.

*

Jaskier was getting more tired with every step, but his pride kept him from accepting Geralt’s offer, even though he was clearly keeping Roach going at a far slower pace than usual. They passed over an old, warped bridge and Jaskier’s nose wrinkled at the swampy smell coming from the shallow water. He hurried his steps to get away from the stench more quickly, and had nearly reached the other end of the bridge when something leapt out of the water, directly at him. Jaskier yelped, staggering back a few steps, and then froze in terror. A drowner stood across from him: swollen, bloated body and bulbous eyes leering at him hungrily. It lurched forward, its taloned hand swiping at him. A flash of silver sliced through the drowner, cutting it diagonally through the middle. It fell to the ground in two pieces—its head and half its torso dropped first with a meaty thunk, followed shortly thereafter by the rest of its body, knees giving way with no brain to keep them upright.

Geralt pulled his sword back, shook it free of blood and ichor and, with his boot, nudged both halves of the drowner off the bridge so they plopped down into the swamp. “You all right?”

“Yes,” Jaskier said, too frightened to hold his silent grudge any longer. He caught a glimmer of a smile on Geralt’s face, before he quickly hid it. Geralt sheathed his sword and climbed back onto Roach. Swallowing his pride further, far too shaky with adrenaline and lingering fear to care anymore, Jaskier walked up beside him, and put his hand on the saddle. Wordlessly, Geralt helped him up, and Jaskier found himself leaning quite closely against the witcher’s broad, warm back.

That was bad enough, but when Roach started to pick up speed, Jaskier found he had no choice but to hold onto Geralt’s waist and that was infinitely worse—he could feel the muscles of his waist and hips flexing as they rode, which made him think of the riverside earlier and the gleaming hills and valleys of that back. Jaskier shifted uncomfortably in his seat and heard Geralt make a “hmm,” sound that was clearly more of a chuckle.

Jaskier tried to think of unpleasant, repulsive things—like that drowner—and not the feel of Geralt’s back, but it was impossible, and by the time they’d reached the massive gates of Novigrad, he’d given up, since even the most hideous thing he could think of did nothing to squash his ever-present arousal.

The moment they slowed, Jaskier slid off of Roach, shifted his stance a bit trying to be discreet and said, “I’ll walk from here, thank you.”

“Staying at an inn?” Geralt asked.

“No, with a friend,” Jaskier said, eyeing the buildings around them, not actually sure where they were, but he’d figure it out. He’d only had his life threatened in Novigrad twice, that barely counted. It wasn’t anything he couldn’t talk himself out of either if he were to chance across them again. He had no doubt he could find somebody to take him in for the night. Maybe the acting troupe, if they were still here. What were they called again? Come to think of it, they had acrobats, too. Three at least. And one of them could do that trick with the rings...

“Does your friend have room for one more?”

“No,” Jaskier said, and then at Geralt’s doubting expression added, “I don’t know. I’m not even sure they’re here.”

Geralt nodded at him and he looked so cocksure, Jaskier would’ve smacked him if it would’ve hurt anyone other than himself.

“Guess I should be going then,” Geralt said.

“Guess you should,” Jaskier agreed and swallowed. His anger had ebbed considerably, replaced by lust and that wasn’t fair because he still hadn’t gotten his apology, and Geralt had no right to his affection after what he’d said.

But Geralt hadn’t made a move to leave. Roach tossed his head and huffed, pawing the ground.

“Care to get a drink first?” Jaskier asked, mortified by his own words, and inability to stop them from pouring out. It was like a damn reflex, his mouth trying to keep Geralt from leaving, weaving a web of words to get him to stay just a little longer, even while his heart shouted: Let him go, he’s already hurt you enough!

“What about your friend?”

“They can wait,” Jaskier said, ears flushing red. “Just, before you go riding off to your next adventure, I thought we could...talk.” Talk? What was he thinking? He didn’t want to talk to Geralt. Why couldn’t he stop himself from saying things he clearly didn’t mean to say out loud?

“The Kingfisher has good drink and food. And it’s close,” Geralt said, dismounting. He walked ahead with Roach and Jaskier followed, too emotionally muddled to say anything else.

*

The Kingfisher was bustling, and the food and drink was indeed quite good. Plus they had rooms open, as it turned out. Geralt asked as soon as they arrived, much to Jaskier’s chagrin.

They got heavily spiced Mahakam potato soup and mead and sat in awkward silence eating, until Geralt said, “I missed your company.”

Jaskier choked on his last spoonful of soup, not at all prepared for that sort of confession. Not from Geralt. He coughed heavily—a chunk of potato had gone down the wrong tube—but failed to dislodge it, gasping until Geralt stood, walked around the table and whacked him on the back so hard he thought for sure a rib had cracked. But at least he could breathe again. He wheezed out a “thank you,” and caught his breath for a few moments, then decided he’d had about all he could handle for one night. “It’s been a long day, and I suppose you need to be on your way,” Jaskier said, faking a yawn as convincingly as he could.

“No, I’d rather rest the night. Head out in the morning.”

“Oh, is that why you were asking for a room?”

Geralt shrugged. “I’ll go to another inn, if you’d prefer.”

“Nonsense.” Jaskier ran his hand through his hair. “You know it’s cheaper if we share a room.”

“True. Though I have coin.”

“Have it a night longer?” Jaskier asked, again wondering where his control over his own mouth had gone. He tried to find his anger again but had difficulty grabbing hold. The wound was still there, but it had scabbed over, maybe from the distressingly arousing horse ride or the fish or the bread, or—

“Jaskier, I’m sorry,” Geralt said, so earnestly Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat.

Tears welled up, the last bits of Jaskier’s anger spilling out of him. “Not here,” he croaked. “Let’s go to that room now, eh?”

*

The room was small, the bed barely large enough for Jaskier, let alone for someone Geralt’s size.

Yet without so much as a sigh, Geralt set down his swords, undid his armor and settled on the floor. He was practically lounging, watching Jaskier with those cat-like eyes.

Jaskier, for his part, found the sheets scratchy, and after shedding his vest and pants, leaving him only in his undergarments, sat on top of the bed, legs drawn up to his chest, facing Geralt. “Why did you come back to me? I thought you hated me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You—you said you wanted life to take me off your hands.”

Now Geralt sighed. “You confound me,” he said softly, “But I shouldn’t have said what I said, and I am sorry.”

And there it was again, the apology Jaskier had been waiting for. But it wasn’t enough, not on its own. “But your heart belongs to Yennefer,” Jaskier said, “And not just your heart,” he added, unable to keep the lingering bitterness out of his voice.

“My feelings for Yen are...complicated. I love her, whether by spell or not, I do, but I love you too.”

“Do you? How can you be sure?”

Geralt shook his head, a few loose strands of his white hair falling to frame his face. He was beautiful, even in this shabby little room he looked grand, all the more magnificent in contrast to his surroundings. He looked back up at Jaskier. “My life was infinitely better with you in it. I missed you when you were gone.”

“Is that so?” Jaskier asked, heart fluttering hopefully.

Geralt nodded.

"I've been thinking more about what pleases me," Jaskier said. "And as horrid as you were to me that day, it made me realize something."

"What's that?"

“I’ve had adventure enough for seven lifetimes.”

“You want to settle down?”

“Not settle. Make a name for myself. Write for the stage, open a theater right here in Novigrad. I've got material and people love my music. It's time I get started on my masterwork!”

“I see.” Geralt sank back on the floor, a soft smile on his face. “At least I’ll know where to find you.”

“Yes, and perhaps you could share some stories when you come visit.”

“Sounds like you’re ready for me to leave.”

“Not just yet.” Jaskier unfolded his legs. “And I can’t let you spend the night on the floor. You did save my life earlier. Why don’t you take the bed?”

Geralt huffed a laugh. “I’ve slept on far worse than this floor.”

Yanking at the scratchy blanket, Jaskier stood for a moment and pulled it off the bed, tossing it at Geralt. “At least take this.”

“You’ll be cold.”

“I’ll sleep in my clothes.”

“Hm.” Geralt sniffed at the blanket and threw it back at Jaskier. It landed half on Jaskier’s head, making him laugh. He threw the blanket back towards Geralt once more, but the Witcher caught it with both hands, and sat, looking up at him with heat in his eyes. “Stop that.”

“Make me.” The words had barely left his mouth, and suddenly Geralt was in his space, kneeling, the blanket looped around Jaskier, trapping him there. He’d knotted it around Jaskier somehow, and sat back on his haunches, stripping out of his shirt, revealing those broad shoulders and the arms Jaskier had imagined wrapped around him on so many lonely nights.

“I don’t think I’ve apologized sufficiently yet,” Geralt said, voice a low rumble. “And I need to make sure you’re not cold.”

“Oh I’m plenty warm right now,” Jaskier said, and he was in fact boiling hot, hot enough he was surprised his underclothes hadn’t started smoldering.

“Should I stop?” Geralt asked, bringing a hand gently to Jaskier’s cheek.

Jaskier shook his head slowly, turning his mouth into Geralt’s hand. He pressed a kiss there, soft and probing. Geralt made a sound of soft surprise and then Jaskier found himself lifted up, Geralt’s arms pulling him down off the bed and onto his lap. The blanket fell off Jaskier’s shoulders and he shivered, not with cold but with anticipation as Geralt pulled his undershirt up and off, tossing it aside.

Geralt's hold on him loosened, and he let Jaskier sink back against the edge of the bed, leaning forward to press a kiss against his chest. "I'm sorry," Geralt said, words humming against Jaskier's skin along with the heat of his breath.

Pulse racing, Jaskier reached for Geralt, carefully, still so dumbstruck by this turn of events he feared Geralt might vanish, that all of this was some kind of cruel illusion meant to torment him further. But when his fingers touched Geralt's hair, when his hands shifted lower to grasp Geralt's shoulders, shifting and flexing as he lavished more kisses up and down Jaskier's throat, he started to accept that it was real, and that set sparks trembling through him, a full-bodied shudder traveling from where Geralt was kissing him straight down to his cock. He bucked forward eager and needy, and somehow got enough coordination to slide his pants part of the way down. Geralt tugged them the rest of the way off, his heat disappearing for a few torturous moments as he too shed his remaining clothing. He came back to Jaskier with a rush of air and warmth, mouth immediately latching back onto that sensitive spot at the join of Jaskier's throat and shoulder; he could feel a bruise forming there but didn't care, reveling in the thought of it, of being claimed in such a visible way.

Jaskier, always prepared, still had just enough brainpower left to say, "In my pack, there's a small bottle—"

Geralt thrust out a hand towards the corner of the room, where Jaskier had thrown his pack and it flew towards him, propelled by a burst of magic. Geralt had the bottle out and uncorked in seconds and Jaskier gasped as a slicked, warm finger pushed gently into his entrance followed soon thereafter by a second and then a third. Geralt's touch was shockingly tender and he worked at Jaskier for a short eternity, until he was loose and relaxed, and only then brought him down to the floor, and pushed his way in with a hesitation that was simultaneously sweet and maddening. Jaskier pulled him down with his arms, guiding him deeper inside and as soon as Geralt's lips were close enough he leaned up, gasping into a kiss, breath stuttering as they both found their rhythm.

It was torturously slow at first, the whole length of Geralt sliding in and out, but they began to move faster and Geralt went deeper with each thrust until he hit that spot that sent another pulse up through the crown of Jaskier's head. He moved faster, hitched his legs up around Geralt's waist using them to deepen the angle and then lost all sense of his body and time as Geralt hit that spot over and over. Jaskier didn't just see stars, he saw galaxies and heat spilled out of him, coating his belly. Geralt stiffened above him and moaned and his own heat pooled inside of Jaskier and then he stilled, laying on top of him, heaving and sweaty and heavy.

But Jaskier didn't care. If he died like this, it'd be worth it. He didn't care that he could barely breathe because he hadn't felt so happy, so fulfilled in years. _Love makes us strong,_ he thought idly, more words falling into place. And then a revelation hit him—it wasn't a solo piece he was writing--it was a chorus, a song for many voices, not just one.

Geralt however, rolled off of him soon after, pulled a canteen of water from somewhere and cleaned them both with what Jaskier was pretty sure was his undershirt. Not that he really cared about that, or anything.

"Forgive me?" Geralt asked, and there was more than a little smugness there.

"Yes, oh gods, yes," Jaskier said breathless. Then, as his brain started to twitch back to life, he added, "For now, anyway."

"Hm," Geralt hummed in acknowledgement. He took hold of Jaskier's waist and pulled him in closer, positioning him against his chest.

Jaskier didn't fight him in the least. Right now, Geralt's chest was in fact the best pillow he'd ever had, and he had absolutely no need of a blanket. He felt the Witcher’s heart beating, strong and steady; proof that he had a heart after all—one that had apologized and made peace offerings and given Jaskier one of the best nights of his life. Content, he let his eyes drift shut. But there was one thing he still had to ask, “Stay here with me, just a little while?”

"I—I can't," Geralt said.

Jaskier's bliss sputtered but Geralt caught both of his hands and held them until Jaskier had no choice but to look him in the eyes. And what he saw there was kindness. "You're going to be just fine. Your shows will be the talk of Novigrad, I have no doubt. And I will come back and I will watch every one." Jaskier flushed at that, waiting to hear the rest. "But being with you, here, reminded me that there are people I care for, ones I swore to protect. Like Ciri. I can't just keep ignoring her. It's my fate to find her, to help her."

Understanding set in, and with it a humbling sort of revelation. "I made you realize you can't keep shutting people out?"

Geralt nodded. "Time is unforgiving, and we have to make the most of it." He leaned down and kissed Jaskier's hands with a tenderness that seemed entirely incongruous to him.

But it wasn't of course. Jaskier knew better now. He leaned in close, kissed Geralt's mouth chastely and said, "Then go. You know where to find me."

*

“Some say love makes us weak

But we know it makes us strong

It guides the swords of warriors

And brings the poets song

Those who said they’d rather be

alone to find their way

Find their paths when intertwined

Lead to a brighter day

Our hearts fear being broken

But love is worth the pain

We’ve only loneliness to lose

And everything to gain."

With his last line finished, Jaskier raised his arms and the audience burst into applause. It was their last show of "The Stars Above the Path," which had become a massive hit over the last few months. The seats were so full there were people sharing them, even more people crowding in the back. Jaskier walked right up to the edge of the stage and bowed with a flourish. When he stood up again, to even more applause, he caught the faces looking at him from the front row. One in particular: Geralt, who was grinning ear to ear, and next to him a young woman with hair nearly as white as the witcher's.

Jaskier's grin mirrored Geralt's, and he leapt down off the stage to pull them both into a hug.


End file.
